Saturday, December 15, 2012
Okay, so maybe 'manuscript' is over-glorifying my work a bit, but when I sit down to work on a Saturday morning, this is not what I want to see:
I don't think people--by which I mean me-- should have to work on a Saturday if they have been working all week, so I like to just sit down, get the stupid work done, and get on with the fun part of the weekend, which is pretty much everything that isn't work. In this way, I am a much better worker on a Saturday morning than I am any other day of the week. Except maybe Sunday.
So I asked the cat if she would mind moving her furry butt off my work as it was making it difficult to see the words, much less write on them with red pen.
It might interest you to know that I had been editing the bottom left corner of the page, so it would seem that I was better off before I opened my big mouth.
I explained to the fat cat that I didn't want to be working in the first place, but that due to one thing and another I was past my deadline and needed to get things back on track and I was really very sorry that she couldn't spend the morning lounging on my pieces of paper, but there it was and why didn't we both make the best of it.
She was not impressed.
So I told her that she could stay on the paper for three more minutes while I went to make my coffee, but that after that she really would have to find a different seat.
Now at least we are both warm, even if I can't reach my papers to edit them.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
I will be celebrating with these,
although I will, of course, be turning them into actual cookies first.
I was supposed to add these to the mix:
Unfortunately, in a moment of wild abandon, I ate most of them and will have to buy a new bag. You can tell that there aren't enough chips left for the cookies because the bag is (a) open and (b) suspiciously flat. This happens now and then (if by "now and then" you understand that I mean with clock-like regularity), especially if shopping day and cookie baking day are too far apart (i.e., not the same day). You might be tempted to suggest that I buy two bags of peanut butter chips--one for me and one for the cookies-- but to buy two bags of peanut butter chips would be to concede that I have no self control and I refuse to believe this. So I carry on in my ways, buying bags of peanut butter chips (chocolate chips, too, if you must know), pretending I can save them for baking, and gobbling them anyway. But only one bag at a time.
Off to the store to buy some more (if only it were national poetry day as well!). I promise this time that I won't eat all of them before I make the cookies.
p.s. Lest you think I am a complete pig, I should note that the bulk of the cookies will be delivered to El Husbando's hockey team. They have won their first two games and are most deserving.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
They have been hemmed and washed. For this first picture, they were even ironed. That will never happen again because I am not a person who believes in ironing things. But it was their first day on the job and, just once, I wanted to see them looking all sparkly and professional before I put them to work as fingertip towels.
Fingertip towels? Weren't they supposed to be placemats? Or kitchen towels?
Yes they were. Right up until they came out of the dryer demonstrating a genius-level aptitude for shrinkage, one that far exceeded my wildest expectations.
Here is one of my towels, the largest one, laid out with a real kitchen towel.
And now you see why they have been designated "fingertip towels." They started out 17"x14" and ended up 13.5" x 11.5". In hindsight, the original pre-washed size was not one that would ever have yielded a placemat or kitchen towel. Now instead of drying dishes with them and marveling at my ability to make my own useful kitchen items, I hang them in the kitchen and try to remember to use them to dry my hands--very daintily, as befits their name-- after I wash stuff.
Oh well. I am pleased that I have finally cleared the project off the table loom (one less project taunting me with its half-finished state) and can turn that bugger over to the kids, who are entirely immune to UFO guilt. And the floor loom is now warped for some real kitchen towels designed by someone (not me) who actually knows what she is doing.
They have to turn out better, don't they?
Thursday, September 27, 2012
The letter sent by the transportation department said--in writing--bold writing, no less---- that our bus time was 7:56. We groaned at the prospect of getting ourselves out of the house 10 minutes earlier than last year, but with a few adjustments to our morning routine, we had ourselves out the door at 7:48 the first morning and by the time we were at the end of the driveway (it's a third of a mile away), we could see the bus coming.
No biggie, we said. The bus must just be a little early to allow extra time to help the kindergarteners polish their new bus riding skills
On the second day, we left at the same time, the bus arrived promptly at 7:56, and we congratulated ourselves on beginning the school year with such early morning punctuality.
Imagine our surprise, then, when the bus was waiting for us at 7:51 on the third day.
Hah, we thought. Mr. Bus Driver was early, so he was willing to park at our driveway to put the bus back on schedule, which he has done in the past, so there is nothing unusual here.
And sure enough, on Friday we were at the bus stop before the bus was, though it was a bit of a squeaker.
Then came Monday. We left at 7:48 and were at the bus stop at 7:51, a full five minutes early for the bus. But there was no bus. So I drove the boys to school.
Tuesday, we left a few minutes earlier and still missed the bus. Not by a few seconds either. By the time we reached the bus stop, there was no sign of the bus and no sign of the neighbors--they get on right before we do and I have never been so late that I didn't see the dust of their car as they zoomed back up their driveway.
So I called the Bus People. They were not sympathetic. The Bus Person was not so bold as to say it out loud, but I could hear the thought crackling around in her little head: we do ask all students to arrive at the bus stop ten minutes prior to the appointed time, just like it says in the Bus Letter.
She was kind enough, however, to radio Mr. Bus Driver and find out what time he was at my house.
Around 7:50, he claimed.
A lie, if I ever heard one. I was on the driveway at 7:50 and had a view of the road. No bus, no dusty neighbors. They were both long gone by then.
The grim truth struck me: 7:56 was no more than a decoy time, and I had been fooled by it. The true-but-secret bus time, was --according to the Bus Person--7:50.
More lies! Wednesday I made the boys put their shoes on at 7:35 and we got in the car at 7:40. The bus showed up at 7:49! And Thursday? The sinister fiend of a bus driver was there at 7:48. Are there no limits to how early we must get on the bus?
Clearly this is a test of my parenting skills as they pertain to Acceptable School Morning Procedures. We are prepared now and will not be tricked again.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Here it is from a different angle, just in case you weren't convinced of my color analysis.
I'm not quite ready to give up on the yarn, though. I have decided to pretend that this is intentionally and creatively variegated yarn in shades so fashion-forward that no one has dared use them yet. I plan to wind the yarn and knit some of it up to see how it looks in an actual project, probably a simple seamless sweater. If it still looks like puke, then I will admit that I may need a little more practice before the knitting world is ready to accept me as the next hot indie dyer. I will re-skein the yarn and re-dye it in a shade of blue that is dark enough to conceal the worst of the color variation and pleasant enough that I don't have to convince people that it's avant garde.
I even have the second jar of dye in the house. It's stored inside the newly re-enameled dye pot, which is dangerously close to some pure white fiber that is looking a little plain to me. Together, they are hatching a plan to take the knitting world by storm. Yay Me!!!
Monday, September 24, 2012
It also has a recipe in it for Wondrous Carrots (they're not kidding) and Peas and Cucumber in Dill, where they cook the cukes and it is actually really good. In fact, now that I look back at the book, I think I had better investigate it further.
But here is the recipe for my standby, which has the great virtue of keeping its bright, perky green color, unlike it's avocado-based relative.
El Husbando found it in the bushes bordering the yard.
It it not, as he first thought, an errant volleyball. Nor is it, as I first thought, a bleached out pool toy. Or a bit of the moon.
It is a mushroom.
A huge, pock-marked mushroom the size of a real life volleyball.
p.s. The chickens say hi.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
It's my clown sweater, all finished and posing for a picture. You will have to trust me when I say that the real sweater--especially the colors-- looks much better than this picture; it's just not a terribly photogenic garment. I think I need to try again with a hanger or a human model and some more camera-friendly light, but not today.
I didn't finish the sweater before the Lopi arrived, but I didn't have to wait long to cast on. I forgot that it would take a few days for the sweater parts to finish blocking/drying, and while they were being poked with pins and flattened by damp towels, I cast on for the first sleeve of Sigridur. It took a whopping two days to knit, that being the great joy of bulky yarn worked in the smallest size of the pattern. Not a very meaningful boast for a pattern that starts at 42", but I'll take what I can get.
The second sleeve followed the assembly of the clown sweater (which had finished drying and was ready making up) in short order and then I lost no time casting on for the body, with visions of the next two sweaters already dancing in my head.
That, of course, is the sound of my knitting mojo coming to a halt. The body should be flying along, just like the sleeves. The sleeves were knit at lightning speed with my beloved Brittany DPNs, which are, of course, the perfect match for Lopi.
They are stainless steel with a spiffy red cable and the company that makes these also makes my current favorite sock needles.
They stunk. They might as well have been coated in glue for all the effort it took to move the stitches along, and I ended up with hand cramps too from battling the yarn.
So I substituted my trusty Knit Picks Harmony wood needle tips.
Same problem, to a lesser degree. Still no knitting Nirvana.
Today, in a last desperate bid for needles that will allow me to knit the remainder of this sweater without crying, I nipped out my emergency back-up yarn shop and, after thorough scientific testing which involved rubbing lots of needles on lots of skeins of yarn, bought--get this--square needles.
Wild, right? Supposedly, they are loved deeply by all who try them, so I'm going to test them out tomorrow. Even if they are dreadful, I'm declaring an end to my needle quest. Between these and those stainless steel jobbers I bought last weekend specially for this sweater, I've sunk about $20 just into needles. If you count the fancy-pants laminate needle tips too (and you probably should, since this is the only project I've ever used them for even if I didn't buy them with this sweater in mind), then we're pushing $30 and that's just absurd. I'll have to start knitting all of my projects on size 9 needles just to get my money's worth out of this new collection. BAH!
Life has not only been about knitting around here, though. Yesterday, in a sudden fit of industry, I finished winding the warp for some towels I've been meaning to make since last winter. I threaded the loom yesterday and finished tying everything on today, and now all I need is a bobbin of pumpkin colored cotton to get going on my first towel. I think I have finally overcome the weaving despair brought on by the Placemats of Bitter Disappointment and I'm ready to try again. More pics after I get these buggers started, which won't be until I finish spinning my current bobbin of purple wool and free up the spinning wheel for the winding of weaving bobbins. Soon. Very soon.
The fun doesn't even stop with the loom. After a morning spent grocery shopping and an afternoon spent alternately ferrying people to and fro and securing string to the loom, I not only made a decent dinner for my family, but also conjured up a loaf of chocolate chip banana bread and a bowl of sweet pea guacamole dip (don't panic: they're not meant to be eaten together, okay?). And I washed the dishes, swept my messy house, and plowed through four loads of laundry. This is more activity than I have undertaken in the last four weekends together and I'm sure I will (very conveniently) end up paying the price tomorrow when I am totally unable to get my work done due to exhaustion. I guess I'll just have to fortify myself with banana bread and engage in some restful weaving.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
2. Someone has been having a go at the grill wipes, plasticky package and all.
3. When you open the grill cabinet, you find a nest . . .
and several mice pretending they can't see you.
I will admit that I was tempted to leave this little problem to El Husbando, who is our resident wildlife enthusiast and the designated first responder when the critters come-a-calling. But EH was miles away supervising Isabel at a batting lesson. Waiting for him to come home and evict the mice would mean abandoning a dinner --grilled chicken and corn-- that was not only easy, but all ready to go. It would actually have been more work to come up with a new meal than to take care of the mice and proceed with the chicken. Plus, I'm not all that good with last minute meal changes. I get tied to the existing plan and resist all attempts, reasonable (i.e., we're out of tuna and noodles, so maybe we should consider making something other than tuna noodle casserole, or --just as a random example--we have mice in the grill so maybe we should try using the oven today) or otherwise (pleasepleaseplease can't we have pizza again tonight), to alter the menu.
The cat was all for roasting the mice right along with the rest of dinner, but she also eats flies, so I don't consider her a reliable culinary advisor. Instead, I tried to scare them out by banging the lid and slamming the cabinet doors.
Next, I put on some old shoes (I was barefoot, because I can do that at my own house, but I would have screamed like a little girl if they had scampered across my feet on their way out of the grill) and a lone winter glove that was lying around and removed the drip pan, which is where they had built their nest.
I even dumped the nest out onto the ground, but there was no sign of the furry buggers. I looked back inside the cabinet, and there they were, all three of them sitting on the drip tray supports and looking at me like I was the unreasonable one.
It turns out that you cannot dislodge mice by pushing the drip tray in and then taking it out and putting it in and taking it out again, no matter how many times you do this. One of them got annoyed and left out the back of the grill, but the others just hopped on and off the tray while I got madder and madder. In a last desperate effort to clear out the grill, I decided to stick my gloved hand in and (ew!) grab them. The mice thought this was a terrible idea. The bigger one fled out the side of the grill as soon as I got near him, but this little baby
slipped down to the bottom of the cabinet and then tried--rather pathetically--to scoot back up the walls to where the nest used to be. Poor thing. The grill cabinet is smooth metal and he was having no luck at all. When I reached for him, he ran to the other side, hid behind the propane tank where I couldn't see him, and stayed there while I fired up grill.
The grill is mouse free this morning, so I can only assume he made it out safely. I'm sure he and his family will soon be moving back into the garage, where they like to eat the grass seed and shred the tissues in my car, or into the barn, where they recently caused $400 worth of damage to the new mower. I think it might be time for some barn cats.
p.s. The chicken was very good, and not furry at all.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
I'm madly in love with it. It is short, so it fits in my Keurig. It is also roomy, so I can brew two cups of coffee into it. It is glazed in one of my favorite shades of blue-grey. And it had just the right amount of pot-belly-ness to fit perfectly into the curve of my hand. It was made by the same potter who made the yarn bowl that I bought at Rhinebeck last year and--try not to swoon--I bought it from the yarn shop. It just screams "comfort" at me, in a comfortable non-threatening way. I feel about mugs the way that I feel about sweaters and wool socks: there is no such thing as too many. The only thing that has kept me from buying all the mugs that I have loved is that I can't fit them in my kitchen, but, thanks to some accidental culling by my kids, there was an opening on one of my shelves. Problem solved.
Unfortunately, when I made the coffee I felt morally obligated not to waste the ground beans that had been sitting around since early August, so the coffee was putrid. Also, I learned today that if you swirl putrid coffee around in a mug that is short and fat, it is easy to spill coffee into your lap. Plus, it takes more than two tries to fine tune your swirling to the shape of the new mug, so you can reasonably expect to swirl putrid coffee onto both of your legs. And possibly onto your keyboard.
As for knitting, I started a heap of shiny new projects while trying to avoid working on my neglected WIPs. Then, when the kids went back to school last week while I was still on vacation, I was seized by an uncontrollable urge to make progress on something other than the mess in my house and I dragged this project out of a knitting basket that had been hiding in the back of my closet.
|Serape jacket, knit here in a bazillion shades of lite lopi|
that fail to conform to the designer's vision
As of Tuesday, I was up to the second row of the lower big blue stripe. Since then, I have plowed through everything up to the arm divide and finished both fronts. Today's plan is to finish the back and maybe get this booger blocked so that it is ready for assembly and a button band. The sleeves, thank goodness, are already done.
The sweater, you may have noticed, is unusually colorful; much more colorful, in fact, than anything I own. The little trouble-making voice in the back of my head has suggested --more than once-- that I will look like a clown in it, but I've decided to ignore the voices and hope for the best. If all else fails, I'm sure it will make a spectacular felted bag.
This is hardly enough knitting to overcome a rainy Saturday, and you will be relieved to find that it is not the only progress I have made. The first week of the Olympics--and hence the first week of the organized knit-a-palooza that I wish for the sake of simplicity was still called the Ravelympics but which has, for trademark reasons, been renamed the Ravellenic Games--coincided with our vacation to South Carolina. Along with the additional knitting time that a vacation usually brings, this vacation involved 30 hours of driving for my husband and a corresponding amount of bonus knitting time for me, so I decided I should knit three things (for reference, I knit one tee the last time I played this). I loaded up my luggage with a bunch of yarns that I probably didn't need to buy last spring and plowed through:
1. The Age of Brass and Steam Kerchief . . .
with "Rootbeer" colored beads
2. The Sweet Caroline Shawl
3. Rondeur, a knitted tee, since the one other knitted tee I have gets more than its share of use in the winter, so I thought it could use some assistance.
The amazing thing about the projects is that I not only finished them in just over two weeks (although the kerchief was not finished until 2 hours past the official end -time of the games), but they were almost entirely trouble free. I am now waiting for any one (or more) of my current projects to explode in my face. This much good fortune must surely come with a price tag.
And with that cheery prediction, my coffee stained pants and I are off to work on a clown sweater.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Most of this extra busy-ness is my own fault. Usually my work dries up over the summer. Aside from the loss of income, I don't like to complain about this because it means I get at least a month of summer vacation with my kids. Not so this year. I took the initiative to ask my contacts to increase the amount of work they assign me. This was the third or fourth time I had asked for more pages, but the first time that I really got results. I've been just short of overwhelmed ever since.
On the up-side, they keep sending me money and we used some of it to put in an above ground pool. Particularly in this unusually hot, dry summer, the pool has been a big hit and has gone a long way towards making up for last summer when my kids ended the season saying that it never really felt like summer because they didn't go swimming.
On the down-side, I've done a bunch of stuff and haven't bothered to post about it. I now owe updates on this year's Tour de Fleece (productive, although I didn't quite meet my goals) and the games that are no longer called the Ravelympics (2.789 projects of reasonable size completed), as well as our family vacation to South Carolina (smashing; I would consider doing it again, which is saying something since we tend not to repeat vacation spots). The vacation thing really bugs me, since I never even posted the best story from last year's vacation, and I haven't even mentioned the garden, which is actually producing food this year, or the chickens, although they haven't been doing much lately, the lazy things.
All of that will have to wait, however, because I have quite a bit of work to do today and I've been dawdling.
Let us not be pictureless, though.
Here are my souvenirs from the vacation.
With the two measly shells I collected, I am a bitter disappointment to my family, all of whom would have dragged home half the beach if there had been room in the car. Such is life.
And now, back to work.
Friday, June 15, 2012
You'll have to excuse the extreme lack of posting around here. When I haven't been driving long ways to sit in the pouring rain and watch my daughter
For example, take a peek at this little tidbit from a case I read yesterday:
As part of Response A, Henrob submitted a declaration to the Patent Office by Roger Staton Doo, an employee and Director of Henrob, in which Mr. Doo represented to the Patent Office the differences between the prior art preclamping, self-pierce riveter and method disclosed in the AI Article, and the claimed riveter and method (the “Doo Declaration”).It was the "Doo Declaration" that had me laughing out loud. I don't know whether the judge was thinking Scooby Doo or poopy doo, but either way I could tell that she thought the name "Roger Staton Doo" was a classic that needed to be immortalized via the cartoonishly formal "Doo Declaration." Too juvenile? That's what four days of patent law will do.
This one--about a guy who expressed his undying love for his hockey team by making a hat-- made me glad that I'm not a wearer of foam hats.
Defendants want this Court to view the Wing Nut Sculpture as merely a three dimensional foam depiction of a hardware screw device--in essence, something not original. Plaintiffs counter, however, that the Wing Nut Sculpture acts as a visual pun on the name of the hardware device. As explained by Plaintiffs, the “Wing” refers to the Detroit Red Wings. The “Nut” refers to a person who is fanatical in his or her devotion to something. Hence, as emphasized by Plaintiffs, “Wing Nuts” are literally fanatic supporters of the Detroit Red Wings and the “Wing Nut Sculpture” was designed as a novelty foam sculpture hat that expresses that idea in a very clever and original fashion.Hoo. That description just sucks all the joy out of having a wing nut hat, doesn't it? The way they're described here makes it clear that the judge thinks that even poor Roger Staton Doo is too dignified to don one. The designer of the hat didn't make out too well either. He tried to claim that the patent on his "wing nut" hat meant that others couldn't use images of the hat on their Red Wings merchandise. The court disagreed and held that
depictions of the “wing nut” novelty hat on t-shirts and soft drink bottle caps did not infringe the design patent for the hat; ordinary observers could not possibly be deceived into purchasing shirts or soft drinks, thinking they were buying a hat.I'm not sure which of us missed the point about the defendants making off with this poor guy's three dimensional foam pun, but I'll never again be tempted to claim that those patent judges don't have a sense of humor.
I'm sure there are many more patent law quotes to entertain us, but I have to leave now to watch more softball, even though it's not raining.
Happy Friday to all!
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Noone should start their day with a snake, so I ran away.
When I came back with the chickens' food and water and, of course, a camera, it was still there.
Have a closer look.
Now close your eyes, shudder, and say "EEEEEEEEEEEE." You can even flap your arms a little bit if it helps. It's entirely natural and exactly what I did both times that I saw the snake.
After I took a few pictures, I explained to Mr. Snake that freeloaders were not permitted in the coop and that he would have to sleep elsewhere from now on.
He immediately slithered to the other side of the building, which was not quite what I wanted, but which does make sense because I was blocking the main door.
Here he is looking out the trap door into the chicken yard and weighing his chances against nine fat, bored birds.
Can you see him mentally calculating his odds of survival?
He must have come up with a big, fat zero, because he retreated to the corner.
Then he curled up and pretended to be asleep.
Drawing on all of my maturity, self-control, and nature skills, I chucked a few pellets of chicken food at him to get him to move, but this only made him curl up in a smaller slithery-snakey heap. I think he even gave me a fake snore.
Fortunately, I had remembered to bring a shovel in case he needed some help finding the door. I had been worried about scooping him up when he was on the wood because I didn't want to pinch his skin (that really hurts; I wouldn't wish that on anyone). But in his new spot, I could scoop him up with some of the shavings and not have to worry about hurting him.
Evidently, he didn't feel as confident about my skills. I got him about half-way on the shovel and then he slid off and zipped out the chicken door . . . only to find himself surrounded by fat hens fixing their beady eyes on him and tweaking their heads from side to side while they wondered whether this was something to eat or something to chase. As much as I love my birds, their eyes lack the warmth and intelligence that you might find in a dog's eyes, or the imperious calculation of a cat's eyes, or even the dim curiosity of a hamster. Chicken eyes have one expression--beady-- and it makes them look slightly unhinged. If I were lying on the ground cornered by a giant flapping feathery thing with those eyes, I would flee and that's exactly what Mr. Snake did.
He slipped right past all those chickens-- who were still busy wondering and not quite ready to act--under the door to the run and right into this very convenient hole in the foundation of the coop.
I hope I don't see him again too soon.